Even Memories Cause Pain
by saturdayslump
Summary: An unsolved case from Hotch's past reunites Emily with the team. Can they coax a reluctant survivor to relive the horrors she experienced as a child to help find a madman intent on catching the only victim to ever escape him?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own the show. **

**For Tigerlily888: Happy Birthday! Hopefully, this will actually work out the way I see it in my mind and you'll get a case fic for your present.**

* * *

When she dreamed, it was dark. Always dark, too cool, and a little damp. She felt like she would never be warm again. She was hungry, too. Hungry, scared, cold, and lonely. She wondered how long she'd been there; she wondered how much longer she would be there. Would she be rescued? Would she die in the miserable darkness? How much longer until either happened?

Then she felt the hands skittering across her shoulders. Her heart picked up its rhythm. She tried to be still, to pretend she was asleep. The hands didn't want a passive victim. But the feel of them on her skin was too much and she jerked away. She ran in the dark, listening to the happy chuckle creeping out of the blackness. The hands were delighted – a fighter! Just what they loved most! She tripped and bumped into things in the dark, trying to get away. But she didn't know where to go, couldn't see anything. The hands were waiting for her; somewhere in all the darkness, they waited until she was just where they wanted her to be. If she changed direction, would she be running away from them or towards them?

Her breath began to puff as she panted, not only from the running, but also the fear and anxiety. They were like the hands, insidious evils that ate at your resolve until you dropped in a heap, unable to run or hide or defend yourself.

Another wicked chuckle had her changing course, veering to the left. A few steps more rapid steps and her shin collided sharply with something hard. She lost her balance, careened awkwardly as she fell, sliding across a bare floor. Before she could get up, before she could even think to get her legs under her, the hands were there. One set of skittering fingers wrapped itself in her long, dirty hair, pulling until she shrieked in pain and shock. Then a body, a man's body, settled on her back, pushing her face first into the ground. The other hand wrapped around her thin neck as his weight settled on her squirming body.

"Got you now," a voice whispered in the darkness. She tried to get away, to buck him off, anything, but she was too tired, too terrified. His weight crushed her as his hand moved from her hair to join its partner around her neck. They squeezed in unison.

She gasped against the pain, needing air, trying to claw at the hands stealing her life away. Light burst behind her lids, followed by empty black spots. She could feel her heart slow… beat… beat… beat… it slowed to a stop. She gasped reflexively once more.

"Mine forever," the voice whispered.

She jerked awake. Drenched in sweat, she gasped for breath, nearly hyperventilating. She nearly fainted before she remembered where she was. It took everything she could muster to regain control of her body, to push away the terror and remember how to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. In and out. In and out. The words echoed in her head for several painful minutes as she got herself under control. When she could breathe without gasping, she turned on her side and cried into the soft mattress, huddled under the downy duvet. She prayed to forget. Please, God, please, just let her forget.


	2. Chapter 2

**I want to thank everyone who took the time to review the first chapter. I really appreciate all the kind words and good thoughts. I'm not going to give any spoilers here, even though there were a fair number of questions. Please bear with me and you'll see where things are going soon. I do want to give everyone a warning though. This update happened fairly quickly. The rest probably won't. Although I have the story outlined, the next month of my working life are going to be hell and squeezing out the time to write will be tough. I'm hoping to update at least once a week, but if it takes a bit longer, don't shout at me. **

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own CM. If I did, I would tell my current boss to shove it and quit. **

**HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TIGERLILY888!**

* * *

Penelope Garcia was assiduously careful to keep her back to the giant display monitor when addressing the BAU team. She may have been required to discuss the case, give the group the details of the latest case, but she didn't have to look at the crime scene photos. If she did, she'd have nightmares… or worse. The images would pop unbidden into her mind at the worst times – at dinner, with friends, during her victim's counseling group, at the ATM, in the grocery store. She saw enough without looking at the graphic pictures, so she was diligent about keeping her back to the screen and her eyes on the members of the team.

"The most recent victim is 25 year old Jennifer Marrigan of New Haven, Connecticut," Garcia informed them as the image a pretty, dark-haired young woman appeared. "She went missing from work; her car was found in the parking garage, her purse was beneath it. Six days later, her body was discovered in the woods in Squantz Pond State Park, approximately 50 miles from where she was taken." Garcia clicked through the pictures of Jennifer Marrigan's corpse and a map showing the disappearance and recovery locations.

"There's a lot of torture here," Morgan commented, as he flipped through the images on his tablet. "Even without reading the medical examiner's report, I can see at least three broken fingers, a black eye, burns, and… are those lash marks?"

"Yes, they are," Reid told him after a quick perusal of the ME's report. "She was also missing a couple of teeth and her should was dislocated."

"But no sexual assault," JJ added. "This level of physical violence usually suggests that this is personal, that the unsub knew the victim. In those cases, sexual assault is typical."

"And he took her clothes," Blake said. "She's wearing a tank top and underwear that didn't belong to her. So the unsub at least stripped her down, redressed her in undergarments, but she wasn't raped and there are no other signs of sexual assault."

"What was the cause of death?" Rossi asked, frowning at the file in front of him. Something about the case, about the body, tickled at the back of his mind. The shirt and panties seemed vaguely familiar.

"Manual strangulation," Hotch stated without glancing up from his own tablet. "Garcia, you said this was the most recent victim. How many others are there?"

"Well, that's the thing," Garcia said. "I've found at least three other similar victims in the last three years. But the only real similarity – aside from their general physical appearance – is the way they were found: in the woods, miles from where they disappeared, dressed in a tank top and underwear that didn't belong to them." As she spoke, pictures of three other young brunettes flashed onto the big monitor. Images of their bodies followed. "Only the victim just previous to Jennifer Marrigan was killed in a similar manner."

"Are these victims all from Connecticut?" Hotch asked. Like Rossi, the case teased at a memory. Unlike is colleague though, Hotch knew where he'd seen victims dressed like this before.

"No, sir. They're spread across the east coast. Massachusetts, Virginia, and Georgia."

"Garcia, I want you to do a search on instances of female victims or remains found in a grey or white tank top and cotton underwear."

"Yes, sir," she said, a bit confused by the vague direction.

"In the meantime, JJ and Reid, I want you to go to Connecitcut. Meet with the victim's family, her co-workers, friends, boyfriends. Find out about her routine – exercise routines in particular: running, walking, hiking. Talk to the ME and the local police PD. Find out everything they know and bring it back here."

"We're not going up as a team?" Morgan asked.

"No. This unsub isn't there anymore. Jennifer Marrigan was target specific. We need to find out how he found her, how he chooses his victims. Morgan, I want you to head to Massachusetts. Blake, you head to Georgia; Rossi, you go to Virginia. Get all the information you can on these similar murders and bring it back here."

"Sir," Garcia interrupted, "for the search, do you want me to look for anything other than mid-twenties females in underwear?"

"No. As you search back, look for victims that are or appear to be younger."

Garcia frowned at the instruction. Usually, victims get younger as a killer gets older, becomes more confident and capable.

"Hotch, do you know what this is?" Morgan asked.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "But I hope it's not what I suspect," he added before pushing away from the table and leaving the conference room. The remaining members of his team were left baffled, staring at one in another in confusion before heading off to complete their assignments.

* * *

_Two days later_

Garcia hesitated outside Hotch's office. She knew the team was waiting for Blake to return from Georgia before presenting their individual pieces of information on the victims, but Garcia was nervous about what she'd found. When Rossi had returned that morning, he'd stopped by her office wanting a quick update on any additional cases she'd been able to dig up, but Garcia had been reluctant to give him any details.

"I think we should wait until we present as a group," she'd hedged.

"Is something wrong, Penelope?" Rossi'd asked.

"No. Absolutely not… I just think Hotch wants us to go in without any bias," she'd said. It wasn't an entirely outlandish thought. Her information could prejudice everyone's ideas and Hotch would prefer that they keep an open mind, consider everything before jumping to any conclusions. Plus, she could put off discussing what she'd found for a little bit longer. Rossi had given her a long, quiet look, but he'd left without further explanation. He recognized a song and dance when it was in front of him. He would know what was on her mind soon enough.

That had been over an hour before. Blake was expected back any time and the team would share their information. But first, Garcia wanted to speak with Hotch about the information she'd found. So she took a deep breath and knocked at the door. Permission to enter was swiftly granted and Garcia didn't hesitate.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Garcia?"

"I've finished the search you asked for," she stated timidly.

Hotch looked up then from the stack of paperwork in front of him. "Alright. We can discuss it when Blake gets here."

"Sir, I think you should look at it first," Garcia urged. She offered the file clutched in her sweaty hands. She hated it when her palms got sweaty, but a serious case of nerves always affected her that way.

Hotch took the file, noted the slightly damp and crinkled edges from where his Technical Analyst had gripped the manila folder. He immediately acknowledged the signs of stress. Garcia considered the team a family and Hotch knew she was always concerned when a case touched the lives of her family. So he gave her a small, reassuring smile before opening the folder and reviewing its contents. After a moment of tense silence, he looked up and straight into her eyes.

"Have you discussed this with anyone else?" he asked.

"No, sir," Garcia rushed to assure him. "Rossi came to my office about an hour ago and asked if I'd found anything, but I didn't tell him what I'd found."

"Why not?" he asked. Garcia wasn't one to keep information from the team if she thought it would help them solve a case. Hotch was intrigued at what she would consider justification to withhold information.

"I… I don't really know. I wanted you to see it first… and…" she frowned.

"What is it, Penelope?"

"With what I read, I wasn't sure if I should be the one to bring it up," she told him. "I told him that I didn't want to prejudice the thought process."

"That's fine. I'd appreciate it if you didn't discuss this with anyone on the team until we meet as a group," he requested.

"Yes, sir. No problem."

"I just got a call from Blake. She should be back here in about twenty minutes. We'll get everyone ready to review what they've found in thirty. Would you let the team know?" he asked.

Garcia picked up the gentle dismissal. "Absolutely. I can do that," she told him before leaving his office.

Hotch watched her for a minute through the blinds. Garcia, a bright peacock among the dark crows of the BAU, hustled down to JJ's and Reid's desks. He could see her speaking to them animatedly before skipping off, presumably to Morgan's office. He saw JJ pick up her phone and a second later the line in Rossi's office rang. Clearly, Garcia had lived up to her word to spread the news of their impending meeting. Hotch smiled a bit more, embraced his affection for the quirky analyst and the light she brought to the team. He held on to that feeling as he opened the file again and glanced through the information she'd compiled.

He wasn't surprised by the information; he'd suspected it from the moment they began discussing the murder of Jennifer Marrigan. But the name printed at bottom of the list still caused a painful sorrow to move through his chest. A dozen years and he could still remember her, a broken girl in a dirty tank top and torn panties. She'd been dirty and almost eerily silent; large, dark eyes following his every movement. She was a victim he'd failed and twelve years on, the same pity and horror he'd felt when he'd first seen her ached through him again as he read her name.

Abigail Josephine Lentz.


	3. Chapter 3

**Here you go! Sorry for the delay. I meant to have this up yesterday, but things happened. So, I'm sneaking this in on my lunch break. I know there are still some questions about where this is going. Please be patient. I promise that I'm getting there. Also, I don't have a beta or pre-reader, so pardon all the horrifying grammar and spelling mistakes.**

**Disclaimer: I still don't own the show.**

**Happy Birthday, Tigerlily (a few days late).**

* * *

The seven members of the elite Aaron Hotchner's elite BAU team settled around the conference table nearly 48 hours after their last meeting. They sipped from steaming mugs of coffee or tea or tepid bottles of water while they waited for Hotch to start the briefing. No one could explain the obvious tension that had settled over the room. Morgan, Reid, and JJ glanced at one another, silently communicating their confusion, questions, and unease. Garcia refused to make eye contact with any of them, but that trio noticed her repeated furtive glances in Hotch's direction. Rossi frowned at his notes and the information compiled by his colleagues. Irritation and frustration are evident in the drawn lines of his face. Blake silently watches them all. Of everyone in the room, she's Reid the longest, but she's worked with the others long enough to recognize when the dynamic was off. The growing discomfort among her teammates nearly has her ready to demand that someone tell her what the hell is going on when Hotch clears his throat.

Hotch had been taking the opportunity to organize his thoughts, to prepare for what he knew was coming. Like the others, he recognized the mounting tension among his agents and the need to get the briefing started. "Alright, let's get started. Reid, JJ, what did you find out about Jennifer Marrigan?"

JJ jumped into the silence first, glancing quickly at her notes while she spoke. "Jennifer Marrigan disappeared from the parking lot of her employer – a non-profit that raised funds for foster kids for things like counseling, summer camp, and college tuition. She had been with the organization, It Takes a Village, since she graduated from Yale three years ago. Her position offers little compensation, although that wasn't a concern because Jennifer Marrigan's family is very wealthy. They're old, discrete New England money. Although until her disappearance, they weren't public figures. Her family is close and I would say, judging by my conversation with her parents, that Jennifer Marrigan was a relatively sheltered woman. She was idealistic and wanted to help people and her family provided her with a financial cushion to pursue her social ideals. She had no history of drug use, even the recreational drug use typical with teens from her social circle. Despite her ideals and education that would indicate that she might be susceptible to a sad story or a similar lure by an unsub, there isn't anything to suggest that she would engage in any behavior that could expose her to risk."

"So she was a victim of opportunity?" Hotch asked.

"I don't think so," Reid answered. "While she didn't engage in traditionally risky behavior, Jennifer Marrigan lived to a relatively dedicated schedule."

"What do you mean?" Alex asked.

"She worked at least five days a week, sometimes 6 if the charity was leading up to a major fundraiser. Her workday was generally 9 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., although again those hours would increase just before a fundraising event. Additionally, she ran the same route through Edgewood Park every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning, when the weather allowed. When it didn't, she ran on an indoor track at a gym a few blocks from her home. On Sundays, she hiked in one of the state parks within easy driving distance of New Haven."

"So, while she wasn't a risk-taker, it wouldn't be difficult for someone to figure out her schedule and determine the easiest time and place to snatch her," Morgan commented.

"Yes. Based on the minimal evidence recovered from the scene of the abduction, it appears that the unsub knew enough about her to know when she would be in the parking lot and that that would be the most convenient place to grab her."

"He stalked her long enough to know her schedule," Blake stated.

"I think so," Reid said.

"Was there any sign of a break in at her home?" she asked.

"None. The doors were all still locked and the alarm was on. There was no indication that anyone had picked the locks or even attempted to gain access to her home. As a precaution, the crime scene unit checked all the windows on the ground lever for prints. There were no signs that anyone had been trying to get in that way," JJ told the group.

"What did you learn from the medical examiner?" Hotch asked.

"As was evident in the photos we received, Jennifer Marrigan suffered a considerable amount of torture," Reid answered. "The wounds indicated that the unsub didn't have her very long before he started. From the healing patterns, the ME believed that the burns probably were first and the broken fingers not long after."

"There is something else the ME noted," JJ added. "There was a contusion near the base of Jennifer Marrigan's skull. According to the wound reconstruction, she was hit with blunt object and probably knocked unconscious."

"So it was a blitz attack," Rossi commented.

"Based on what the ME found, we think that's right. The unsub saw her somewhere and began stalking her. Because none of her family or friends mentioned seeing anyone and Jennifer never complained about being followed, we think he was careful. He kept his distance; following her long enough to get her schedule and determine the best place for the abduction. He waited until the perfect moment to catch her, blitz attack from behind. She's down and out in just a few seconds. He puts her in his vehicle, takes her to a secondary location, waits for her to come around and begins the torture," JJ hypothesized.

"Rossi, the Virginia victim was the next most recent. What were you able to find out?" Hotch asked.

"Heather Tildings was a 26 year old social worker," Rossi started. "Aside from the physical similarities – brown hair, petite, brown eyes – Heather also came from a wealthy family, which helped supplement her salary."

"What about the other victims?" Hotch asked.

"Melissa Graves, 25, brown and brown, petite. She didn't have a formal profession," Morgan explained. "Instead, she lived off a generous trust fund from her grandparents and volunteered for several charities, mainly those focusing on animal welfare and protection."

"Anna Hinders, also 25," Blake said, speaking of the final known victim in Georgia. "5'5", long brown hair and brown eyes. Also the daughter of a wealthy family from Savannah. She wasn't employed – she was working on her Master's in social work – but she volunteered at several organizations that assisted battered women."

"Let me guess," Morgan added, "like Jennifer Marrigan, each of these others was an avid runner or hiker. Melissa Graves ran on the same trail four days a week and regularly participated in charity runs."

"Anna ran charity events as well. She also ran competitively – she'd finished her third marathon only a week before. She placed second overall for women," Blake said.

"Heather was a hiker," Rossi put in. "She jogged in the park near her home at least three times as week for exercise, but according to her parents, hiking was her passion. She did a fair amount of charitable work to raise funds to maintain state parks, her preferred hiking spots."

"This is more specific than we see with most unsubs," Morgan put in. "The physical similarities alone would be enough, but he does more than watch them to get their schedule. There's serious research here. He knows about their finances, their families, their hobbies. This kind of stalking takes serious time and dedication."

"But he only has them for about a week," Blake said. "Jennifer Marrigan was killed after six days. Anna Hinders was killed after five days. My guess is the others only lived for about long," she paused and Rossi and Morgan nodded. "For the amount of work he puts into researching each of these women, the payoff is too short. He would want to spend more time with them."

"Garcia," Hotch interjected, "what did you find in your search?"

With the eyes of the rest of the team on her, Garcia fidgeted a bit. Hotch knew what she'd uncovered, but the others didn't. She was a bit wary about how this would be received. "OK. Well, per your direction, I did an open-ended search for female victims or remains found in a tank top and underwear. And what I found is here," she stated, clicking the remote to start the monitor behind her. A dotted map of the eastern U.S. appeared on the screen. "Each of these dots represents a victim that fit the general parameters. As you can see, they're not localized in any particular place, at any particular time. The information on each of these victims is included on your tablets," Garcia added. As she spoke, pictures of the victims replaced the map. "These are the victims I've been able to locate. There are some gaps in the timeline, but from what I've been able to find, this unsub has been active for about a dozen years."

Rossi eyes shifted away from the information in front of him; he looked straight at Hotch, "A dozen years? Is this…?"

Garcia glanced between the two men, waiting for Hotch to answer Rossi's unspoken question. Instead, the team leader looked away from Rossi and at her. "Finish it up, Garcia," he instructed softly.

"The first incident was a dozen years ago. It included five victims… girls between the ages of 16 and 18. They were found tied together in the woods. Each had been strangled," Garcia concluded with images of the five girls. Their smiling faces shone from school pictures above a single crime scene photo of them bound to one another, laying on a forest floor. They were dirty and bruised, leaves gathered in their tangled hair.

Reid, his mind always so sharp, recognized the images. He glanced quickly between Hotch and Rossi. "This is the Collector crime scene. You both worked that case."

"We did," Hotch stated.

"Wait. I remember that case. Wasn't there a survivor?" Morgan asked.

"One of the victims got away… Abigail… something. That was how the disappearances of the girls were eventually linked. One of them got away. Rossi, you were the lead on that case. You interviewed her," Reid said.

Rossi looked at Hotch and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I tried. We were never able to get much out her."

"Abigail Lentz! That was her name. She's the only known survivor of the Collector. She disappeared on her way home from school when she was 14. A couple of hikers found her seven months later; she was running through the woods when she stumbled into their campsite," Reid said.

"Abigail Josephine Lentz," Garcia interrupted. A picture of a smiling, barely teenaged girl appeared on the screen. "This picture was taken two months before she disappeared." Another picture of Abigail appeared. She was thinner and bruised, dressed in only a tank top and panties. She wasn't smiling. "And this is Abigail in the hospital shortly after she was recovered."

Blake looked at the picture of Abigail, thinking of all the other victims. Long brown hair, brown eyes, petite builds. She thought of the age progression of the victims: each victim getting older or appearing to get older every year. "What about this girl's family?"

"Her family was wealthy," Rossi said. "Her father is an entrepreneur, invested in a lot of developing technologies. He built an enormous fortune on top of the one he inherited from his parents."

"All of the Collector's victims were from wealthy families," Reid added.

"He's looking for her," Blake said quietly.

"What makes you say that?" JJ asked, although she suspected that Blake was right. There were too many similarities, too many coincidences for this to be random.

"Well, start with the victims. The teenage girls from the original group were all from wealthy families, yes, but there are no real physical similarities among them. Of the known original six victims, they run the gamut from tall to short, blonde and brunette, brown, blue and green eyes. Most were athletically built, but Abigail Lentz is barely into puberty and at least two of these other girls are fully developed. He targeted not so much a physical type, but a social type: the princess. But when Abigail Lentz escaped, he shifted his targets. Still the princess, but a specific princess. Girls who were in Abigail's age range at that time; all are girls, or young women, with her general physical appearance – brown eyes, brown hair, and petite."

"That's true, but these women aren't Abigail Lentz," JJ pointed out. "If he stalks these women, he would have to know that."

"Not necessarily," Hotch said.

"Why not?" Morgan asked.

"It's possible that he's trying to locate her. He could be targeting these women because he thinks there's the possibility that one of them may be Abigail Lentz," Hotch explained.

"Why would he think?" Reid asked, confused by Hotch's statement.

"Because no one has seen Abigail Lentz in twelve years. There were some concerns regarding her mental state following her recovery and her parents objected to the repeated attempts to question her about the abduction and captivity. Her family helped her disappear," Hotch told the team, carefully to keep his gaze from Rossi. "It's possible that this unsub is targeting these women because he thinks they could be Abigail."

"Then we're going to have to find her," JJ said. "We're not going to catch him without her help and he's not going to stop until he has what he wants."

"Agreed," Hotch said. "Garcia, I need you to dig into the Lentz family. Find everything you can about them, friends, extended family, holidays, travel destinations, where and how they spend their money, phone records, everything. Abigail was their only child. There's no way they sent her somewhere without being able to contact her regularly. Do whatever you have to do to find her."

"Yes, sir," Garcia promised. "It may take me a little while. A dozen years worth of records isn't an easy feat."

"I understand. If you need help, you can pull in Kevin, but otherwise, this doesn't leave this room," Hotch said, looking around the room at his team. "No one has seen or heard anything about this girl for twelve years. If anyone suspects that we're looking for her, she could go even deeper into hiding. Her family doesn't lack for the resources necessary to live on the run."

Garcia, Morgan, Reid, JJ, and Blake nodded their understanding of the directive. But Rossi continued to stare transfixed by the photo of school-aged Abigail. A single small dimple flickered in her right cheek as she smiled shyly into the camera. Her long brown hair was pulled back from her face with a tidy white ribbon tilted to the side. She was so young and innocent in the picture; it hurt him to look at her.

"Rossi?" Hotch asked. "Do you understand?"

"Hmmm?" the older agent asked, pulled from his memories of Abigail. He remembered more than the smiling face from the picture. "Yeah, I understand. God, sometimes the past just comes back to bite you right in the ass, doesn't it?" he muttered as he pushed away from the table and left his colleagues.


	4. Chapter 4

**Here's the next installment. I hope everyone begins to see a little bit about where the story's going. I do want to apologize for the rambling chapter. The outline for this chapter was actually quite short. Once I started writing it though, the characters wouldn't shut up! So, it's long and long-winded. Exposition city right here. Sorry about that. Anyway, there's a short note at the end related to some questions I've been asked. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Do I really need to keep reminding everyone of this?**

* * *

_8 days later_

It had taken more work than she'd anticipated, but Garcia was nearly certain she'd done it. As she again stood outside Hotch's office, she wondered at the outcome of what she would reveal. Though neither had spoken of the unsolved case from twelve years ago, it was obvious that the Collector haunted Hotch and Rossi. Considering the effort Abigail Lentz and her family had taken to hide the only remaining victim, it was obvious that what had happened to that young girl haunted them as well. Maybe, and it was a small, small maybe, with Abigail's help they would be able to finally catch the Collector. But at what price for all of them?

There was the possibility of one good thing coming out of this. If what she'd found was true, they might be working with an old friend again.

Thinking of this sole positive factor, Garcia knocked on Hotch's door. When he gave permission to enter, she pasted on a bright smile and walked into his office with her information.

"Yes, Garcia?" Hotch asked, distracted by the stack of files in front of him. Garcia's smile faltered at the sight of the paperwork. Unless she was very much mistaken, the pile had grown since she'd last been in his office. But that made no sense because she knew Hotch spent more hours than they could count reviewing, completing, and signing the mountain of bureaucratic crap that made its way to the BAU. Garcia wondered if there was some way she could simplify everything… maybe digitize the forms and reports. Would it be easier to review if everything was electronic? Probably. Well, she'd always thought so. But then there were people like Reid who preferred everything in paper. She wondered if he considered the trees that had to be killed in order to get him all the paper…

"Penelope!" Hotch said sharply. He'd been trying to get her attention for several minutes, but she'd slipped down the rabbit hole of her thoughts and hadn't heard him call her name. His brows raised in sharp arches as he watched her eyes refocus on him. Hotch couldn't help the small smile that pulled at his lips. In all his time with the FBI and the years before that with the federal prosecutor, he'd never met anyone like her. He kept few soft spots in his life, but one of them was firmly reserved for the technical analyst. When Hotch saw that he again had her attention, he asked again, "Do you have something for me?"

Garcia blushed a bit, mildly embarrassed by her mental side trip. "Sorry! But really, I could help you get rid of some of this paperwork. There really is such a thing as a paperless office, sir."

"Is that what you needed to speak to me about?" Hotch asked.

"No, it's not," Garcia said. She paused to take a deep breath and reorganize her thoughts. "I think I've found her. Abigail Lentz. I think I know where she is… mostly."

"Mostly?"

"Her family's gone to extraordinary measures to help her hide. So, based on everything I've uncovered, I'm about 98% certain that I know generally where she is. For the last two percent, I think we might need some help," Garcia explained.

"Good work, Garcia. Let's gather the team and you can tell all of us what you've found," Hotch suggested.

"Yes, sir," she smiled at the praise before scooting out Hotch's office.

* * *

When the BAU team was once again gathered around the table in the conference room, Garcia began the process of explaining the history of Abigail Lentz following the young girl's disappearance a dozen years before.

"OK. I'm sure that you've all read the case file," Garcia began, "but let me recap the highlights. Twelve years ago, when she was 14, Abigail Josephine Lentz was abducted when she was walking home from her exclusive private school in Seaford, Delaware. Seven months later, she ran into the illegal campsite of a pair of 40-something nature lovers near in a State Game Park near Lykens, Pennsylvania, about 200 miles from where she disappeared."

"An illegal campsite?" Blake asked.

"Pennsylvania has a general prohibition on camping except in designated areas in state game parks," Reid explained.

"Right. So, the camper's get her to a hospital, the cops get involved. When the local cops figure out who she is, they call the FBI and the cops in locals in Seaford. See, for a while, everyone had suspected that Abigail's disappearance was a traditional kidnapping. The FBI had set up people in the Lentz home, anticipating a ransom demand."

"Which never came because this was never about money," Morgan added.

"Right again," Garcia told him. "But the FBI was quickly on the scene. Like the local cops, they took one look at her condition and realized this hadn't been a kidnapping. Also, by the time the FBI showed up, Abigail had spoken enough to one of the cops for them to realize that there were potentially other victims in danger. The local cops coordinated with the FBI to set up a search of the game park for the other victims."

"Nine hours into the search, the other victims were discovered, tied together at their wrists and strangled," Rossi added.

"Rossi and I were sent from the BAU to help profile the unsub," Hotch stated.

"And that's where the story of Abigail Lentz goes off the rails," Garcia said. "Abigail wasn't particularly cooperative with the police and the FBI. She was borderline catatonic and essentially shut down emotionally," Garcia said.

"That's not exactly correct," Rossi interrupted.

"Dave," Hotch interjected, "I don't think this is the time."

"No. The team needs to know what happened," Rossi insisted. "After we discovered the bodies of those five girls in the woods, there was a lot of pressure to find the person who'd killed them. These girls were from wealthy, connected families. The media attention was almost insane, but the pressure internally was the problem. The victims' families wanted results. They wanted to know who had killed their daughters, several of who had been missing for years, not just months. Hotch was able to establish a rapport with Abigail and she talked to him a bit. Considering everything she'd been through, it wasn't surprising that she was having trouble communicating, but Hotch was able to reach her," Rossi told them with a hint of pride for the man he'd helped train.

"Unfortunately," Rossi continued, "the slow pace wasn't pleasing anyone up the chain of command or the other victims' families. Eventually, they demanded that this girl be interrogated and they didn't give a damn what they'd been through. I was the one that conducted the interrogation. I pushed her hard, coming at her from every conceivable angle to try to get details on the person who'd taken her, where she'd been held, what had happened. She shut down completely and was virtually catatonic. Her parents had her transferred to a hospital in Delaware, evaluated, and then released to their home with private nursing care. We tried again to interview her, but her George Lentz got his lawyer to put a stop to it on the grounds that Abigail wasn't physically or psychologically capable of being questioned. By that time, the rumors had started."

"What rumors?" JJ asked.

"The rumors that Abigail had run away, that she'd been sold into prostitution, that she'd been complicit in what happened to the other girls. Some of the other victims' families suggested that Abigail somehow traded her life for theirs and essentially blamed her for their own daughters' deaths," Rossi told them.

"But she was just a child!" JJ objected.

"It didn't matter," Hotch said.

"She wouldn't cooperate, so they did what could to try to force her to help," Blake commented. "They tried to guilt her into participating in the investigation."

"Yes, except it didn't work. Abigail Lentz was psychologically traumatized, from her ordeal with the unsub to what we put her through in the interrogation. She couldn't help," Rossi told them.

"So her father helped her disappear," Morgan murmured.

"Wouldn't you have?" JJ asked softly. Morgan nodded his acknowledgment. He may not have any kids of his own, but he had sisters, his BAU family. There wasn't much he wouldn't do to shield any of them from pain.

"I think this is where you come in, Garcia," Hotch said, shifting everyone's attention back to the case, but mentally blessing their compassion for that lost girl. Maybe if they'd been around a dozen years ago, the case would have turned out very differently.

"Right. I went back through the records for the Lentz family. Not so much Abigail because we know just about everything there was to know about her before she initially disappeared. I looked at her family – parents, aunts and uncles, family friends, god parents. And I found something interesting. It turns out the George Lentz has a cousin named Margaret. George Lentz started his freshman year of college the fall after his cousin Margaret went to live with his family. He roommate was a guy named G. Arthur Lowell. Lowell and Lentz were tight and remained roommates for the rest of college. Afterwards, when he was in law school, Lowell briefly dated Margaret. The relationship didn't last long, but they parted amicably and they've all remained friends. When the relationship between the Lentz family and law enforcement broke down, Margaret began making calls to Helena, Montana, where Arthur Lowell was a state court judge. Several months later, Judge Lowell handled a case under seal. I was able to slip around some things and find out that the case was sealed because it involved the welfare of a minor."

Rossi nodded his understanding of where Garcia was headed, "They used their friend the judge to do a name change and have the record sealed."

"Correct," Garcia smiled at him.

"If the record was sealed, how have you been able to identify her?" Hotch asked.

"Well, I accessed the Social Security Administration's database using the parameters I had: 15 year old female being issued a social security number in Helena, Montana. It wasn't a lot to go on, but I didn't think there would be a huge number of returns on that query. Turns out, I was right. There were a total of 15 names that came back. I was able to track down and eliminate all but one of them. Meet Natalie Angelica Price," Garcia announced as she clicked a button to bring the large monitor to life.

A picture no one recognized appeared on the screen. Natalie Price had a thin, pale face. Her hair was a short, choppy mess of chocolate brown. The only feature Hotch recognized was her eyes. They were large, almost too large for her thin face, and dark. The well of sadness and pain that he'd seen for himself were still in those eyes.

"That's a passport photo," Reid observed.

"A passport was issued to Natalie Price four months after the social security number. Within a handful of weeks, Natalie and Margaret boarded a private plane in Bozeman and left the United States. Margaret came back about a month later. Natalie Price hasn't returned to the U.S."

"Where did they go?" Morgan asked.

"They hopped around for a little bit, but Natalie ultimately settled outside of Oxford in the U.K. She was privately tutored for a while before spending her last year and a half at private school – weirdly, I think they call them public schools, which I don't understand. Anyway, Natalie went to university at one of the colleges at Oxford. She's a legal resident of Great Britain and runs an organization to that provides mental healthcare to children. They specialize in treating children suffering from forms of PTSD – war survivors, abuse victims."

"She used what had happened to her to help others," Blake said. "That takes some serious guts."

"I don't understand, Garcia," Hotch said frowning at her. "You mentioned that you weren't 100% certain you'd found her."

"Yeah, here's the thing. This is one of the only other pictures of Natalie Price I was able to locate. It's from her legal resident card," Garcia told them as she clicked to a new picture.

When the image appeared, the team was shocked. The young woman had a sleek, chin length cap of glossy chestnut hair. Her face was still thin and almost delicate, but without the appearance of illness. Sharp cheekbones rose beneath fair skin decorated with a small bridge of freckles over her nose. A hint of a smile teased her lips. Her eyes were the same rich brown, but they were not haunted. There was no trace of the traumatized girl in the young woman.

"That's the same girl?" Morgan asked.

"From the data, I would say yes," Garcia said. "But looking at the pictures… I'm not sure. Facial recognition didn't come back with a close enough match either."

"I can understand why you're not sure, Penelope," Rossi commented. "I met Abigail Lentz. There's no way I would see that woman and think it's the same person."

"What about the rest of the Lentz family? There's no way they would cut off contact with their only child."

"I can't find anything to indicate direct contact. Her mother and father, her aunt, and others in the family have all traveled to Europe frequently, several times a year each, but they never went to Oxford and I can't tell that they went to Surrey either, which is where Natalie Price lives. But travel in Europe is porous. You can get on a train, boat, or car and travel easily between countries. They wouldn't have needed to leave the UK either. They don't have any call records to the same number either, so I can't track it that way either."

"You're going to have to verify that it's her in person," Rossi announced.

"I'm sorry?" Hotch asked.

"You know I'm right," Rossi told him. The team watched as a mini-drama from the past unfolded between the two senior agents. "It can't be me. I was the one who interrogated her. That's damage I can't undo. But she had a rapport with you, Aaron. She'll recognize you if she sees you again and you'll know if it's her. You're the only other person here who's had personal contact with her."

Hotch looked around the table at his agents. There was no dissension, no argument. Rossi was right. Hotch had to go. No one envied him; he was bound to open old wounds for a lot of people.

"I can't just go to Britain and interrogate one of its legal residents. I don't have any jurisdiction there," Hotch pointed out. He was nearly desperate not to go, not to interrupt the life that Abigail – Natalie – had built on the ashes of her past.

"We know someone in London who could help," Reid pointed out. "I'm sure she'd be able to make arrangements, smooth the way with local law enforcement."

Hotch looked at the members of his team. As Garcia had explained the evolution of Abigail Lentz into Natalie Price, he had realized how it would end up. He'd seen this outcome and had hoped to avoid it for the sake of the girl he remembered. But there was no way to avoid his responsibility. If Natalie was Abigail, he was the only one who had even the smallest chance of convincing her to help them catch the Collector.

"Alright. I'll call Emily in London; have her start cutting through the red tape. She'll have a much better idea of how to handle things on that end. I'll leave as soon as possible," he told the group.

"Tell Em we said hello," Garcia said.

"I will," Hotch promised before leaving the conference room.

* * *

**So, Em is not Abigail. A few people asked me if she was... and no. I realize that I can let some bad things happen to character's (mostly OC's), but considering Prentiss' history I couldn't just heap this on top of her, too. Doesn't seem quite fair to have one person endure quite that much... maybe the show writers should consider that. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Here's the next chapter! Just a head's up that there's going to be a bit of a break (hopefully less than 2 weeks). Real life has intervened and I'm currently away from home for about a week for work. Given my schedule for this week, I don't know that I'm going to have the detail for the next chapter fleshed out by next weekend. There's too much to get through there. So, there may be a gap, but hopefully not more than a few days.**

**Disclaimer: The same depressing story over and over.**

* * *

_Two days later_

When Aaron Hotchner disembarked from the over-crowded airplane in Heathrow at an ungodly hour in the evening, he was exhausted. Because he had to do it so much for his work, he was used to flying and generally enjoyed it. But that was within the comforts of the jet used by the BAU to shuttle them to and from cases with only a small number of passengers and amenities that made the trip less of a hassle. Flying economy class on an international flight was an entirely different matter. The seats were too small and too close together, there were too many people, the meals were dreadful, and despite the flight attendants, there weren't nearly enough blankets, pillows, headsets, or complimentary beverages to ease the torture. The multi-hour delay on the tarmac had not helped the situation.

Hotch felt rumpled. His suit was wrinkled and he desperately wanted a hot shower. But he needed to collect his checked bag, get through customs and immigration; he needed to call Emily to let her know he'd arrived. He needed food, desperately, a cab to the hotel – wherever that was. He could barely think through the exhaustion plaguing him. The stress of the case and the inability to sleep on the filled to capacity jumbo jet sucked at his energy level. As he shuffled along with the other passengers waiting to show passports and visas, Hotch took a deep breath, hoping to revive his cloudy brain. As he entered the long hall of immigration, a man in a tidy suit approached him.

"Excuse me, sir, are you Aaron Hotchner?" he asked in a stereotypically posh British accent. The man couldn't have been older that Reid, but was otherwise the complete opposite of the BAU genius. His suit was dark, conservative, and perfectly tailored. Plus, his socks matched. Thick dark hair was worn short and carefully groomed in a neat, professional style.

"I am," Hotch responded, matching the other man's casual tone.

"Would you please come with me, sir?" the man asked. He indicated toward an unoccupied security booth at the end of the immigration hall.

Hotch nodded and stepped out of the line to follow him, the rubber wheels of his Pullman-style suitcase silent on the hard tile floor. He was fully aware that some of the other passengers from his flight were beginning to whisper and gesture in his direction. Briefly, Hotch wondered if this escort was some jurisdictional pissing match because he was an American FBI agent on UK soil in a professional capacity. Emily had assured him that she would handle the red tape on this end, but Hotch supposed there were things even she couldn't completely control.

After Hotch entered the small security booth, the young man shut the door firmly behind them. "I apologize for the cloak and dagger routine, Agent Hotchner, but I wanted to get you away from the other passengers before asking if you'd brought your service weapon with you," he explained.

"No," Hotch told him. "I'm well aware of the regulations pertaining to firearms in Great Britain."

"Oh, good," the young man responded, clearly relieved. "We had an American police officer bring his weapon over in his checked luggage some months ago. It caused a bit of an uproar and a political mess that was dumped in my lap.

Hotch just nodded.

"I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself. Inspector Dennis Reffords with Interpol," he announced, offering his hand to shake.

Hotch took it. "Aaron Hotchner, the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. It's nice to meet you, Inspector Reffords. I wasn't expecting anyone to meet me at the airport."

"It's nice to meet you, sir. Senior Superintendant Prentiss asked me to collect you from the airport. Scotland Yard has given Interpol some leeway with your presence here, but she's tying up some loose ends to keep everyone happy."

Hotch frowned. "I wasn't aware that there was any conflict with Scotland Yard over my presence."

"It's not really conflict, Agent Hotchner. Mostly it's a lot of posturing about who's in charge and all that. If you're ready, we'll go ahead and have you processed through immigration and I'll drop you at your hotel."

Hotch looked over his shoulder at the long line of people still trying to make it through the screening process. Generally, he wasn't one to exploit his position for favorable treatment. However, the lure of a shower and a bed was too great a temptation and he let Inspector Reffords handle the immigration process for him. He'd been given temporary, limited credentials, which helped speed the screening process even further. Once his identification had been verified, he passed through security and was bundled in the passenger's seat of a dark sedan.

London traffic was relatively light at that hour of the day and they made it to the hotel in Russell Square more quickly than Hotch had anticipated. Jeffords removed his bag from the trunk – the boot, Hotch reminded himself – and let him know that Prentiss would call him in the morning before bidding him good night. It took longer to check into the hotel than it had to get through airport security, but he was able to get a shower and tuck himself in bed less than an hour after arriving. Exhaustion was quick to take over and Hotch slid into a deep sleep just after the light was extinguished.

* * *

The shrill ring of a phone snatched Hotch from sleep hours later. After a moment of confusion, he remembered where he was and reached for the phone on the table beside the bed.

"Hello?" he asked thickly, sleep still clinging to his voice.

"Hotch? It's Emily," the familiar voice piped through the earpiece. "Were you still sleeping?"

"Emily? Hello, sorry, hold on a minute," he told her. Hotch sat up in the bed, rubbed his blurry eyes, and yawned hugely. He glanced quickly at the window before recalling that he'd pulled the curtain closed before falling into bed the night before. There was no light anywhere and he had no idea what time it was.

"Sorry about that, Emily," Hotch apologized when he picked up the phone receiver again. "I think I forgot to set my alarm last night. What time is it?"

Emily'a laugh tinkled merrily through the phone line. It was a warm sound and Hotch relaxed at its familiarity. "Now that's a shocking thing to hear from you. Not to worry though; it's not quite 7 a.m."

"It's earlier than I thought," Hotch told her. "Where and when would you like to meet?"

"Actually, there are a few things I want to talk to you about before we drive out to see Abigail Lentz," Emily told him.

Hotch frowned a bit. There was an undercurrent to Emily's tone. Whatever she wanted to discuss with him, he wasn't going to like it. "That's not a problem, Emily. I know we're doing a bit of a jurisdictional dance here, so I'm at your disposal. I don't want to ruffle any more feathers than necessary," he told her.

"It's nothing like that, Hotch. In fact, we're getting more cooperation than I expected, but I'll explain more in person."

"Alright. How about you give me an hour to get ready and catch a cab to your office?"

"Actually, I was thinking more like breakfast. If you can be ready in about half an hour, I can pick you up. There's a café not too far from your hotel that you'll like."

The moment Emily mentioned food, Hotch's stomach growled loudly.

"Was that your stomach?" she asked incredulously.

Despite his solitary state, Hotch blushed as if she was in the room with him. "Yes. My flight got in late and I didn't get anything to eat before passing out," he explained.

Emily laughed again. "Well hurry up and get ready. I'll buy you breakfast. See you shortly," she quipped before disconnecting.

Hotch huffed a laugh as replaced the phone in its cradle. He yawned again and rubbed a hand over his face to rid himself of any remaining vestiges of sleep. Looking forward to breakfast with a friend and colleague, Hotch dragged himself from bed to get ready.


	6. Chapter 6

**Finally an update! Thanks so much for all of your patience. As expected, my work life got incredibly busy with 50 and 60 hour work weeks and trips out of town. But, here's a new chapter. It's a bit longer to make up for the delay. Hopefully, you'll enjoy it.**

**Disclaimer: really?**

* * *

It didn't take Hotch as long as he'd expected to shake the dregs of sleep from his body and prepare for what would undoubtedly be a long, arduous day. A quick splash of cold water across his face, brushed teeth, and a swish of burning mouthwash and he was completely awake. Hotch hadn't packed much and after years of traveling, he'd learned how to get everything into a single bag without wrinkling his suits. After pairing a charcoal suit with a pale blue shirt and a patterned tie in similar shades of blue and gray, he slipped on his most comfortable dress shoes and headed down to wait for Emily. He didn't have to wait long.

Emily arrived in a brilliant green miniature car. If Hotch was honest, it wasn't really that small, but he was used to traveling in the giant SUVs provided by the bureau when they worked a case. Emily's tiny car was a bit of a shock and he wondered briefly if his legs would fit comfortably in the passenger seat… which was disconcertingly on the wrong side of the car. His worry was washed away when the brunette emerged from the driver's side of the car, her familiar grin beaming at him.

"Hotch!" Emily exclaimed as she mounted the steps to the hotel door.

He met her half-way down the stairs and accepted her hug. "Emily," he said with a brief, but tight, squeeze. "It's good to see you again." He held her away from him for a moment in order to take a good look at the former subordinate he hadn't seen for more than a year. "You look wonderful." Although it was a typical greeting for long-time friends and colleagues, the triteness of the words didn't lessen his meaning of them. Former Supervisory Special Agent Emily Prentiss looked lovely. Her dark eyes twinkled merrily and dimples flashed in her cheeks as she grinned at Hotch. The omnipresent weight that seemed to follow her after Ian Doyle escaped his prison in North Korea was gone. Everything about her seemed light and bright.

"I can see that your decision to move here was a good one. I'm glad you're happy, Emily," Hotch told her.

"Thank you, Hotch," Emily returned. "Let's head over to the café. We'll be able to talk more there."

Hotch gave the car a dubious look, which Emily caught. She laughed. "Don't worry. It's roomier than it looks and you can push the seat back even further."

Hotch folded himself into the passenger's seat of the small vehicle. As soon as his door was closed, Emily whipped onto the road without a blink and the tiny car began to dart through the rush of London traffic. Hotch contemplated praying for a safe arrival, then let his concern go as he watched London scenery flash by the window. Emily had promised a short trip and he hoped to survive at least until breakfast.

* * *

After a few minutes of dodging other cars and whipping around corners and through alleyways, Hotch gave up trying to figure out his way around. He was glad Emily had volunteered to pick him up. He considered himself to be a modern, capable man, unafraid of asking for or following directions. But he knew he'd never have been able to follow the twists and turns of the way on foot. So he enjoyed the view of an old city, built on the ruins of an ancient one. For a brief moment, he was able to forget why he'd come and to think only of how much Jack would enjoy wandering around a city like London – all the sights, smells, and wonders that would capture a young boy's imagination. Hotch hoped he'd be able to bring his son one day and show him the ancient city on the river.

It wasn't long before Emily pulled into a small garage and parked the tiny vehicle. Once in the space, Hotch realized another boon of such a small car – they were easily able to fit in the parking spaces in urban parking garages.

"Was it as bad as you thought?" Emily asked as they headed for the street on foot.

"I'll admit that it's more comfortable than I expected… although being in a car with you driving on the wrong side of the road is terrifying," Hotch told her with a brief grin.

"Hey! It could have been worse, you know. Reid could have been driving," Emily retorted.

Hotch laughed. There was a reason the young genius didn't drive the Bureau's SUVs all that much. "That's true. But I think I would have enjoyed whatever spiel he would have given about London."

"How's he doing?" Emily asked as they headed into a small café. There was a small collection of tables and chairs just outside the door. They were empty now as people rushed to work, but Hotch imagined they'd be full during lunch and dinner. It was a nice spot to take a moment to eat. Flowers spilled from window boxes and baskets hung from the pole that also carried a sign for the daily specials.

Hotch's smile faltered a bit as he thought of Reid. "He's okay. I'm assuming you know about Maeve." At Emily's nod, Hotch continued, "It's been a hard year for him. You know Reid and how he is… seeing him talk about that girl though. You could see how much he loved her, even though they'd never formally met."

"He's talked to me a bit about everything that happened. I was worried for a while, but I'm glad to hear from you that he's doing better," Emily told him. "I'm hoping I can convince him to visit for a couple of weeks."

"I think he'd like that."

"Will you approve his time off?" Emily asked with a sly grin as they settled into a small booth at one of the windows. There weren't many other breakfast diners and the waitress had just pointed in the direction of the empty tables, letting them chose where they sat.

"That depends," Hotch answered. "You're not going to try to convince him to stay, are you?" Emily didn't answer, but she pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. "Oh my god, Emily, you were going to try to poach one of my agents."

Emily laughed at Hotch's incredulity. "Can you blame me? He's brilliant. Having someone like that on my team would be an enormous coup for me… and I'll admit that I might take some perverse pleasure in stealing him from you."

Hotch glared, but the look was too imbued with genuine mirth to hold much threat. "I'm definitely not approving that leave now," he muttered as the waitress approached to take their orders.

After placing nearly identical orders – eggs and toast for each, with tea for Emily and coffee for Hotch – they settled down into more somber topics.

"Before we get too into everything, I want to thank you for helping smooth the road for me, Emily," Hotch told her.

"It's no big deal, Hotch. Besides, I owe you," she said.

"For what?"

"For your advice on managing a team of my own," she answered.

When Hotch didn't respond, Emily reached across the table to take his hand. "Really. It was the best advice anyone has ever given me. And so far, it's working just like you said," she told him before releasing his hand after a brief squeeze. Hotch was not a particularly physical person and she didn't want to make him uncomfortable.

Hotch gave her a small smile as he remembered the advice he'd given her the year before. Not long after her relocation to London, Emily had called seeking advice on how to be a team leader. She knew about organization, about maximizing each individual's strengths and minimizing weaknesses, but she'd never been a team leader and was worried that her inexperience would end in harm to her people. He'd given her the best advice he could.

"There's no set way to manage a team, Prentiss," he told her. "There's no surefire way to make sure no one gets hurt, that everyone makes it home, and that everyone makes the best choices. The key is to use your strengths to get to know your people. Try to understand how they think and how they react. If you can do that, you'll have the best handle on how to use your team and when to reel them back in. You have good instincts for that. I'd bet that you could give me a rundown on each member of the BAU and their individual strengths and weaknesses. All you have to do is use those abilities to lead them. You're not just a team member, you're the leader. It sets you apart from everyone else, even if you don't want it to."

Emily had taken his advice to heart. In the year she'd been with Interpol her team and become a cohesive unit with one of the best investigative records in the organization. And despite some initial hard feelings about a former FBI agent being brought in to oversee them, her team had learned quickly to trust her judgment and she'd earned their respect.

"I'm glad you're happy, Emily. You deserve it. Although, I do have to say that I've been getting flak for not promoting to a position within the FBI. There's been discussion of ways to lure you back to D.C.," Hotch told her with a smile.

Emily's enigmatic smile in return made him think that maybe the rumors and discussions had turned into more direct contact with her.

"Anyway, I can't take full credit for smoothing the road, Hotch. There were some other considerations that reduced the bureaucratic mess your visit normally would have caused."

The conversation paused briefly when the waitress approached with their food. Once everything was arranged on the small table before them, Hotch resumed.

"What do you mean? What considerations?" he asked warily.

"After you called me, I started looking into Natalie/Abigail and The Collector murders. I used the information Garcia had gathered to run a search using Interpol's resources. I think Pen's right, Natalie and Abigail are the same person. But without the other information that I've found, I don't think I would have been able to get clearance for you to come here and speak with her so quickly," Emily told him.

"What other information?" Hotch wanted to know.

"There have a handful of murders similar to those you identified in the U.S. Specifically, there have been three homicides I've been able to locate of young women, each brunette, each within the age range that Abigail Lentz would have been at the time the murders occurred. Each was an avid hiker or runner, who preferred trail running but regularly ran in urban areas when they couldn't get to a park. Examinations of the remains indicated that the victims had died within a week or so of their disappearance. They'd been tortured then strangled."

"Where have these been?"

"There was one in France, near a popular ski village not far from the Swiss border. The other two have been here in the U.K. It was the U.K. murders that had Interpol and Scotland Yard clearing the way for you to be here. Initially, the crimes occurred to far apart in geography and time for the murders to be linked together, but the similarities between the cases in the US and these are too much to be ignored."

"So everyone has an interest in getting this solved as quickly as possible," Hotch murmured.

"Yes, but we don't have full leeway here, Hotch," Emily said.

"Why not?"

"Because Scotland Yard doesn't care if Natalie Price used to be Abigail Lentz. In fact, they're more inclined to protect her if she is. She's a victim of a horrific crime. They won't force her to help us if she's not willing. And that's on top of the fact that her work on behalf of children is universally admired. Whatever her past, she's doing good work that benefits kids all over the world. Her center sponsors trauma specialists who travel around the globe and treat children who are the victims of war crimes or suffering from PTSD," Emily informed him. "Every directive I've been given has boiled down to one thing: if she isn't willing to help, there's nothing anyone will do to force her."

Hotch nodded as Emily finished speaking. "You know you can trust me not to push her too far. I'm not here to force her to help if she can't or won't. I know what happened the last time the Bureau tried that – she shut down completely. No one could get her to speak at all. I don't want to do that again."

"So what is your plan?" Emily asked.

"I'm going to ask for her help. When we were first trying to talk with her, I thought I was developing a pretty good rapport with her. Hopefully, everything that came after didn't destroy that."

"And if she refuses?"

Hotch frowned. "I honestly don't know. We need her to agree to come back to the US to help with the case. If she won't agree, then I'll have to let that go. I would at least like her to agree to talk about what happened to her… maybe do a cognitive interview."

"That sounds reasonable. I'll do what I can to help convince her to trust you," Emily promised. "If you're done with breakfast, we should probably get started."

Hotch nodded and they rose from the table. Emily insisted on picking up the tab for breakfast. "If you're still miffed about it later, you can buy dinner," she told Hotch. She could tell by the way he was frowning that he would definitely still be miffed later and he would buy dinner.

* * *

The drive to Natalie Price's home outside of Guildford in Surrey took a little over an hour in the morning traffic, but Hotch enjoyed the drive. It was pretty country and for once he wasn't rushing off to recover a dead body. When they finally pulled into the drive, Hotch was speechless. The house was massive, much larger than necessary for a single woman. He didn't recognize the construction, but it was obviously old. Probably originally intended as some kind of manor house or country home for a ridiculously wealthy aristocrat. Surprisingly, there had been no gates or other security to impede their arrival. They'd driven up a narrow lane that ended in the cobbled round about drive that circled a pretty, gurgling fountain.

As they approached the massive door, Emily and Hotch both acknowledged the security cameras carefully built into the house. Neither was sure if the design of the system was to blend so carefully into the structure or if it was to better conceal its presence. Considering the care that had gone into planning the design, Hotch briefly wondered if they'd missed other cameras cleverly hidden along the lane to the drive.

Hotch and Emily were not perturbed by the security and waited patiently for their knock to be answered. A single booming bark echoed from somewhere in the house and the sound of soft-soled shoes barely broke through the heavy wooden door. The brunette pair heard the unmistakable sound of keys turning in a lock before the door opened to reveal a short, stocky woman.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"Yes. My name is Emily Prentiss. This is my colleague Aaron Hotchner," she told the woman, indicating to the man standing to her left. Emily glanced over at him briefly and saw that Hotch's face was calm and open. He was doing his best not to look severe or frightening. "If she's available, we'd like to speak with Ms. Price," Emily said.

"Why don't you…" the woman began, only to be interrupted by the weight of an enormous dog crashing into her from behind. She stumbled in the open door and fell into Emily. "Oh! You stupid oaf!" the woman cried, turning on the drooling creature now sitting placidly where she'd just been standing.

"Sorry!" said a younger voice from down the hall. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Adams. I wasn't able to catch him before he ran for the door."

"He ought to be kept in cage," the older woman proclaimed as she turned from the dog to young woman that approached. "Really, Miss Natalie, he could hurt someone."

Natalie Price didn't answer. She was standing so still that both Emily and Mrs. Adams thought she could be mistaken for a statue. Her eyes were locked on Hotch's. The rosy glow she'd gotten from chasing after her dog faded until she was nearly as white as the marble statuary gracing the entryway.

She swallowed audibly before finding her voice. "Agent Hotchner," she whispered.

"Miss Price. May we come in and speak with you?" Hotch asked politely. He spoke quietly and was careful not to make any movement. He was afraid if he did, the girl would startle her like a doe and she would bolt from the room.

Natalie looked from Hotch to Emily and back again. Her mouth worked as if she was trying to speak, but there was no sound. Neither knew if she would be able to find her voice and, if she did, whether she would permit them to enter.

* * *

**If you have a moment, let me know how you think things are going. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, but trolls and assholes can line up to the left. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Here we go! Sorry about the delay. I got the grossest intestinal bug from my nephew over the weekend (I will spare you the nasty details because... ew.) and wasn't able to even sit up until Tuesday. Needless to say, there was no writing. There wasn't even much thinking, just groaning in agony and praying for someone to just put me out of my misery. In any event, all good now. **

**Oh! Please see the note at the end. There's a question down there for all of you readers.**

**Disclaimers: ... so, no changes here.**

* * *

"May we come in, Miss Price?" Hotch asked gently, careful to be as still as possible. Again, he kept his tone gentle, the words barely above a whisper. He was trying to let her know just by his voice that the choice was solely hers. Hotch would only walk through her door if she allowed it. More than anything, he needed her trust. Even if she refused to go back to the US with him, Hotch needed Natalie's help and to get that he needed her to trust him. It surprised him to understand that even more than needing her trust, he wanted her to trust him. She'd been a lost, damaged child when he'd first met her and she'd slowly started to trust him. But he'd broken that trust all those years ago; he'd seen it shatter in her dark eyes as she withdrew from everyone and everything around her.

Emily stayed similarly still, mimicking Hotch in order to put Natalie at ease. She watched as the girl's eyes flickered back and forth between Hotch and herself. Emily noted that there was a fine tremor in the young woman's hands. When her eyes glanced up from catching that detail, they locked on with Natalie's. The woman blinked in confusion before following Emily's gaze down. When she realized she was trembling, Natalie fisted her hand and shook off the tension in her slight frame. She took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and cleared her throat with a small cough.

"Agent Hotchner," she repeated. "Please come in," she offered, stepping back from the door. Natalie made a silent prayer that the tremors she'd locked away wouldn't escape into her voice. She prayed that the memories Agent Hotchner's presence had dragged up would stay locked away as well.

"Thank you." As Hotch stepped through the frame, he gestured to Emily. "This is my colleague, Senior Superintendent Emily Prentiss with Interpol."

Emily again copied Hotch and did not offer her hand. While most people would have seen it as a rude gesture, Emily knew that Hotch was letting Natalie make all the moves, allowing her to feel physically comfortable in their presence. She was also keenly aware of Mrs. Adams standing to the side and observing everything with a frown. It was obvious that the older woman did not appreciate the effect the brunette interlopers were having on her young employer.

Natalie did not offer her hand, but she did nod politely in acknowledge of Emily's introduction. "Inspector Prentiss. Um… why don't we go into the west parlor," she said. She needed a minute to pull herself together, to wrench away from the past and all the horrifying recollections that Agent Hotchner's presence brought up. The west parlor wasn't far, but the short walk down the corridor would provide her the time she needed.

Natalie turned down the hall to her left, leading her unexpected and unwanted guests to the cozy room with a view of the west lawn. The west parlor wasn't the biggest sitting room in the house or the most well appointed, but the chairs were comfortable. Natalie opened the carved doors and gestured her guests inside. When she noticed Mrs. Adams trailing worriedly behind them, she smiled easily at her.

"Would you please bring tea, Mrs. Adams?"

"Are you sure, Miss Natalie?" the other woman asked. She peered suspiciously at the man and woman in the parlor. Good manners be damned; if those two were going to upset her girl, she wouldn't serve them a thing.

"Yes, I'm sure," Natalie told her with another smile. She recognized Mrs. Adams' overprotective instincts. "Tea would be very welcome."

"Alright, Miss. But if you need anything, just ring for me," Mrs. Adams said before narrowing her eyes in warning at the strangers. She left them to head for the kitchen and the enormous dog that had been silently shadowing the group slipped into the room just before Natalie closed the door.

Hotch eyed the dog warily. He wasn't afraid of animals, but this creature was the biggest dog he'd ever seen. It had long legs that would have made it built for speed, but they were thick, stocky legs that wouldn't hold up at a fast pace over long distances. It had an oddly shaped head that was narrow in the muzzle, but broad at the cranium. The body was narrow as well… at least as narrow as something with bones that thick could be, and was covered in shaggy gray fur. The dog easily weighed 150 pounds. It followed closely behind Natalie as she chose one of the armchairs and took her seat. When she was settled, the dog thumped down on his rump facing the intruders. Clearly, it perceived his and Emily's presence as something of a threat. His choice of position made his loyalty quite clear.

For a moment, the room was silent. For Hotch, the silence was deliberate. As before, he wanted to put Natalie at ease and allow her to initiate the conversation. He hoped that if she felt more in control of the situation, she might be more willing to cooperate with them. Hotch recognized and appreciated that Emily was following his silent cues. During their drive out of London, they had briefly discussed how to approach Natalie Price. So far, Emily seemed to be letting Hotch take the lead and worked to keep the younger woman calm by staying in her direct line of sight and mimicking Hotch's soft tone.

After a slow, deep breath, Natalie spoke. "It's been a very long time, Agent Hotchner."

"Yes, it has."

"I didn't think I would ever see you again," Natalie stated baldly.

"Honestly, I didn't think I would ever see you again either," Hotch told her.

Natalie watched him for a moment. It was obvious she was gauging his words, judging their truthfulness. "How did you find me?"

"The technical analyst for the BAU was able track down your movements after you left Delaware. She put that together with a sealed court record authorizing a change of name for a 15 year old girl. We tracked the name to the passport issued to you and your subsequent legal residence application and card," Hotch explained briefly. It was probably best not to go into too many details about Garcia's work.

"And that's it?" Natalie asked.

"We weren't able to make a visual confirmation based on the photo from your legal residency card. It was suggested that I come here personally to confirm who you are."

"Now what?" Natalie asked.

"What do you mean?" Hotch asked.

"What happens now? Are you going to arrest me?"

Hotch frowned. He hadn't anticipated this. "Why would I arrest you?"

Natalie glanced between Emily and Hotch, noted their confused expressions and the puzzled glances they exchanged. "Aren't you here to arrest me?"

"No, Natalie, I'm not. I've never been interested in arresting you."

"Agent Rossi wanted to arrest me," Natalie claimed.

Hotch sighed. "Natalie… no one ever wanted to arrest you."

"That's not the way I remember it. I was hauled down to the police station and interrogated for hours. Agent Rossi and those other cops seemed to think I was involved with what happened. They blamed me for those girls' deaths."

"Natalie…" Hotch began, not sure how to explain to her what had happened, the pressure Rossi and the state cops had been under, the screaming and finger-pointing from the girls' parents. All of the loss, anger, fear, had culminated into a perfect storm that had resulted in the terrorization of a victim.

Before he could formulate a response, Emily stepped in. "Miss Price, I have absolutely no doubt that what you went through after your kidnapping was terrible. But I've read the report and I've read the notes and letters sent by Agents Hotchner and Rossi regarding your interrogation. Both of them strongly objected to the tactics that were taken after you were recovered. At the time, no one knew anything except that 6 girls had been kidnapped and tortured and that 5 of them had been murdered after the sixth escaped. After you were found, Agent Hotchner spent a lot of time with you trying to find any clues that would help him identify the man that took you, that took those other girls and killed them. Unfortunately, that process – the correct one – was taking too long for the parents of the girls who'd been killed. They wanted answers, someone to blame. You were the only person they could find. You got away. Their children were murdered, but you were alive. And they hated you for that. It wasn't fair and it wasn't right. But they put pressure on the cops and the FBI to take a more aggressive approach to getting information from you. It failed, horribly. No one got what they wanted."

Natalie watched Emily silently before speaking. "You can't really know what it was like for me… after."

"I can't know, not exactly. But I know what it's like to be a survivor. I know the happiness and joy and relief you feel because you got away… and I know that it comes with equal amounts of guilt and self-loathing. I also know that the memories never go completely away. You think they have because you can go so long without remembering. But eventually you dream, or smell something, hear something, and you're back there again with all the fear and pain as if it was happening at that moment. I may not have gone through what you did, but I do know about being a survivor," Emily told her. She watched the younger woman searched her face, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "And so does Hotch."

At that, Natalie's eyes cut away to Hotch, who'd been mesmerized by Emily's speech. His former subordinate had a way about her that made you forget she'd been a victim, that she'd been beaten more than once, that she'd been stabbed and left for dead, that her friends and associates had been murdered. When she mentioned his own past, Hotch was momentarily confused. Then the damage wrought on his life by George Foyet came rushing back to him and he realized that, like Natalie, he was a victim. He tried not to think, not to remember, about what had happened. But like the victim whose cooperation he needed, his past never truly went away. It was the ghost that haunted his every step.

Hotch's eyes met Natalie's. "It was several years ago. A serial killer named George Foyet. He tried to kill me and my son… he managed to kill my ex-wife," he explained to her.

Natalie looked back at Emily, who answered her unasked question. "His name was Ian Doyle. He was an arms dealer that I'd helped capture. He escaped from prison, killed my friends from the team that captured him. He stalked me, threatened to kill my friends at the FBI. He kidnapped me, tortured me. When my team came to rescue me, he stabbed me and left me for dead." Emily knew she was glossing over some of the finer details about her relationship with Ian Doyle, but everything she said was the truth.

"Why are you telling me this?" Natalie asked.

"Because we need your help, Natalie," Emily said. "The only way we can get your help is if you trust us. Maybe knowing that we understand a little bit what you've gone through will help you trust us."

Natalie fidgeted in her seat while she engaged in her mental debate. She stroked the giant dog's shaggy fur and the creature closed its dark eyes in enjoyment, but it otherwise didn't move from its position. While she wrestled with her thoughts, Natalie worried the left side of her lower lip with her teeth. From the spot's discoloration, both Hotch and Emily assumed this was a frequent habit when Natalie was struggling with a decision. After several minutes of stressed silence, Natalie looked back up at the agents.

"I…" she began to say.

A sharp knock sounded on the parlor door, interrupting whatever Natalie Price had been about to tell them. Her mouth snapped closed so sharply, Emily and Hotch heard her teeth clink together.

* * *

**Not much of a cliffhanger, and there probably won't be many (if any) in this story. So, a quick question for everyone reading. Would you want to see a more "personal" turn in the story for Hotch and Emily? I've gotten some comments from people that mention this. Although I've written them together or getting together before, I wasn't necessarily intending for that to happen here. Usually, my case fic thought patterns focus mostly on the case. But this particular circumstance could lead to some... exploration of feelings. I'm not guaranteeing anything (special emphasis here because writing is a process and the process may wander completely away from that path), but would people be interested that? I'm interested in hearing from everyone, although I will take special consideration of Tigerlily's thoughts on this since this is her birthday fic! Thanks!**


	8. Chapter 8

**You know when it takes someone forever to update their story and then they've got a million excuses for the delay? Personally, I just want to yell at them, "Shut your face, bitch, and get to the story." So, I'll just say life happened and get on with it.**

**DISCLAIMER: I am tired of this.**

* * *

Mrs. Adams bustled in, pushing a laden tea trolley into the parlor. Mentally, both Hotch and Emily cursed the interruption. They knew in the moments before the older woman reappeared, Natalie Price had been emotionally vulnerable. She'd connected with the stories each agent had recounted about their own victimization. Whatever decision she had reached was locked away under a façade rapidly rebuilt in the short time Mrs. Adams was in the room.

"Here's tea and sandwiches for you and your guests, Miss Natalie," Mrs. Adams announced. "Would you like me to stay and pour?" she offered. The older woman might look like a grandmother, but Hotch and Emily recognized the steely determination under the propriety of the offer. If Natalie Price felt the need to have a buffer present to protect her from the conversation in the parlor, Mrs. Adams would damn well be the buffer.

But she obviously didn't feel the need for a buffer… at least not yet. She smiled kindly at the older woman before shaking her head. "No, Mrs. Adams. I can take care of it. Thank you though."

"Alright. If you need anything more, just ring for me," Mrs. Adams said. She made her way to the door, but before exiting the parlor, gave the two agents a stern glare. Emily and Hotch glanced at one another after the door was shut. Emily wasn't able to smother her laugh completely. She attempted to cover it up with a polite cough, but Natalie wasn't fooled. She let loose a small laugh as well.

"She's a bit overprotective," Natalie explained about Mrs. Adams as she poured tea for them. Surprisingly, they all took their tea the same: black with one sugar.

"How long has she worked for you?" Emily asked.

"Almost since I moved here," Natalie told her. "My father bought this house for me less than a year after I moved to the UK."

"I thought you went to a boarding school," Hotch commented.

"I did. But during school holidays, I needed a place to come home to. This was it. At first, Aunt Maggie was here at the holidays. But as I got older, I didn't need someone around every moment. Plus, it wasn't fair to ask Maggie to give up all of her holidays for me."

"What about your parents?" Hotch asked.

"They came, too. Or I would visit them. That was always trickier though. My father has always insisted that we not be in public together. He knew the press followed him around the world for years after I left America. The FBI, too. He wanted to ensure that no one found me – not the cops, not the feds, not…" she trailed off, unable to say it. She'd never become comfortable saying label the press had given to her captor, and Natalie had no other name for him. The words always stuck in her throat. She thought they probably always would, even if he was caught.

"In any event," Natalie continued, glossing over the hitch in the conversation, "Mrs. Adams was hired during my last year of school. She kept the house up while I was away and has been here ever since."

"Does she know who you are?" Hotch asked.

Natalie paused, reflected on the years that Mrs. Adams had been the housekeeper. "I think she suspects that there are secrets being kept. But she's never out right asked about anything; I think she would consider that rude, not to mention that it wouldn't be her place to inquire. She knows me as Natalie Price. I would prefer to keep it that way," she told them.

"We don't have any intention of telling her about your past," Emily assured her. "But we do need your help to catch the man that took you."

"I don't know if I can help you," Natalie told them.

"I understand if you're afraid. We'll do everything we can to ensure the privacy of your current life," Hotch told her.

"It's not just that. The person that I was… she doesn't exist anymore. I've worked so hard to put all of it behind me. To forget Abigail Lentz and everything that happened to her. I don't want to be her again. And I don't want to remember it," Natalie confessed.

Emily faced her fully. "You may have tried to put what happened to you away, to lock it in a box and throw it in the deepest, darkest hole you can find. But you know the mind doesn't work like that. What happened to you is still there. You can't change that, Natalie," Emily told her. It wasn't said cruelly or with any ill intent. Instead, it was the bald, painful truth of being a victim. You could move on from what happened and live a full and happy life. But you never forget, not completely.

Natalie pushed away from her seat and paced to the window. The dog, who'd been so silent Hotch and Emily forgot he was in the room, followed her. When he reached her side, he sat again, pressing his enormous body into her thigh and whining a bit. In what the agents recognized as an unconscious motion, Natalie lowered her hand to soothe him with a gentle rub on the round top of his oddly shaped head.

"I'm okay, Baby," she murmured to him soothingly. She kept her back to the room and stared out the window at nothing. "I don't know if I can do what you're asking," she told them.

"Why not?" Hotch asked.

Natalie turned to the agents, letting them see the tears that streamed down her cheeks. As soon as he noticed the tears, Hotch rose unnerved by such an emotional swing. Emily stood as well. She suspected that whatever Natalie Price was going to reveal to them would be worse than anything they had ever encountered.

"Agent Hotchner… you have no idea how bad it really was. No idea what really happened in that pit."

"If we don't know, we can't catch him," he told her.

When Natalie said nothing, Emily again stepped into the void. "We wouldn't ask without good reason, Miss Price. We think he's looking for you. There have been a series of murders we've connected along the east cost – young women from wealthy families. All close to the age you would have been at the time they were taken. Each a brunette – the same hair color you had when you were abducted. They were all athletes – runner's and hikers – just like the girls taken before, just like you used to be." Emily let that sink in for a moment. "There's more. He's been to Europe. We've identified at least three young women abducted from towns your parents had just visited. Again, all young brunettes who were close to the age you would have been at the time they disappeared. In each case, in Europe and the U.S., the young woman was stalked, kidnapped, held and tortured for a week, and then strangled."

"We need your help, Natalie. You're the only person who has any information on this man. The only one who can help us find him," Hotch told her.

Tears fell again as Natalie returned to her seat, the enormous dog hovering by her side. "I don't know if what I remember will help you find him, Agent Hotchner," she said, her voice a depressed monotone.

"Anything you can tell us will help," he urged.

"You don't understand, Agent Hotchner. I don't know much about him. I don't remember what he looked like, how big he was… nothing. I'm not even sure if I ever actually saw him."

"Then what are you so afraid of?" he demanded.

"The things we did. The things we did to one another, me and the other girls. You think you know. You think that all the bruises and broken bones and cuts were caused by him? No. They weren't. We did it to each other. We hurt one another… tortured, burned, beat, and raped one another in that pit."


	9. Chapter 9

**My apologies for the delay. I mentioned at the beginning of the last chapter that I hate when people drag out their excuses. In that spirit, I'll try to keep this brief. I've been struggling with a series of minor medical issues lately. They're making it difficult for me to actually sit at my computer and write. Hopefully, they won't be awful, but I think it's going to take 2-3 weeks for each update. I'll try to keep the time between new chapters as short as possible though.**

**Disclaimer: I bought the show, guys. I mean, really. You totally believe that, right? **

Hotch and Emily were silent during their drive back to London; neither knew what to say. Without really providing any detail, Natalie Price had blown to hell every theory anyone had ever had about The Collector. Both agents knew that any further revelations Natalie made would fundamentally alter their perceptions of the unsubs they sought. Her words had hinted at an unexpected and horrific depravity on a level no one had ever seen.

But there wouldn't be any more details from Natalie today. Shocked by the information she'd provided, neither Hotch nor Emily had been able to respond in the parlor. Natalie had seized the silence as an opportunity to ask them to leave, claiming fatigue and a headache. Hotch didn't doubt the assertion. The young woman had been pale and drawn, as if the unburdening of that single nightmarish secret had leached the health and vigor from while they watched. Hotch only hoped that Natalie didn't misconstrue either agent's shocked silence as censure for whatever she may have done to survive her captivity.

As Natalie escorted them to the door, the giant dog still hovering at her side, Emily recovered enough presence of mind to request to return the next afternoon. Trapped by the unexpected request, Natalie had not been able to find a way to refuse. She'd reluctantly asked them to return for lunch the next day. Both wondered if they would be let through the door tomorrow once Natalie had had time to collect herself. Certainly, Mrs. Adams would bar them from entering if Natalie told her not to let them in. The agents crossed their fingers and hoped that her manners and promise would prevent her from withdrawing her invitation to lunch.

The trip back to London was taking longer than anticipated. The pair had been waylaid by a serious traffic accident. Hotch wasn't entirely sure what had happened, but the radio announced something involving "lorries" and a resulting spill of some sort on the roadway. The pair was nearly idling their way back to London. For the most part, apart from the radio updates, the trip had been quiet and both Hotch and Emily allowed themselves to be caught up in their own thoughts on Natalie Price's disclosure.

Eventually, though, Emily needed to voice her thoughts. They were crowding too much in her head; she needed to get them out or they'd swim around in her consciousness until she was IN bed… when they'd conjure images that kept her awake long after she needed to be asleep. Slipping comfortably back into old, familiar patterns, she turned to Hotch.

"When Abigail was first recovered, did she ever mention anything that hinted at this?" she asked.

Startled out of the silence in the car, Hotch furrowed his brow in thought. He was caught off guard by the question, but was able to admit that he appreciated the distraction. "No. I was just building trust with Abigail when our conversations ended. She didn't talk much back then. I think the first time I talked to her, she didn't say anything at all."

"What did she say when she finally spoke?" Emily asked, curious at how a man like Hotch, who seemed so imposing and domineering in his professional life could win the trust of a frightened, traumatized girl like Abigail Lentz.

Hotch smiled a bit at the memory. Abigail's eyes had been enormous in her too-thin face, her skin pale and bruised. Her hair was still dirty and matted as she'd refused to take a shower and refused to let anyone bathe her. Hotch suspected that she didn't want to remove her clothes in front of anyone, that she didn't want to be caught so vulnerable. She'd been examined when she'd arrived at the hospital, but she'd been nearly catatonic at that point. Hotch wasn't even sure if she knew where she was or what was happening around her. But a mile-wide streak of stubbornness had started to emerge by the time Hotch was able to talk to her.

"Initially, she said she wanted something to eat – 'I'm hungry,'" Hotch remembered.

"That's it?" Emily asked, surprised. Generally, survivors of such crimes asked about their captors, wanted reassurance that they were finally safe.

"Yeah. Her stomach growled and she said she was hungry. I'm not even sure she was talking to me. It was my second visit with her."

"What happened?"

"I told her I might be able to get her a snack – but the doctors would probably want to talk to her first."

"What did they say?"

"Nothing. She stopped talking, refused to acknowledge or respond to them in any way. They started talking about using food as an incentive to talk."

"They weren't going to feed her?" Emily exclaimed in horror.

"Maybe. They never really got to make the call. I put my foot down on that and so did the nurses. Plus, I started sneaking in pudding. Abigail liked that," he recounted. There was an odd fondness in him for the memories of Abigail and the pudding he cups. On one hand, there had been an underlying sweetness and innocence to the girl's enjoyment of the dessert. On the other was the physical reminder of how horribly she'd suffered in captivity.

"Did she ever tell you anything substantive?" Emily wondered.

"Some. It was in small pieces."

"Like what?"

"That there were others, more girls than the ones we found in the woods."

"When did she tell you that?"

"Because she was talking to me, it was decided that I should tell her that we'd found the other girls in the woods. It was right after that. I had the file with me and she asked if I had any photos."

"You let her see photos of the bodies?"

"Yes. She asked to see them. She went through each picture of the girls, sometimes touching their faces. She was crying, but I don't think she knew it. When she got through the stack, she handed them back and told me there were other girls, ones that had died before she'd escaped."

"Did she know how many?"

"Not really. She thought maybe three others, but that was just since she had been there. Abigail told me there were probably more from before?"

"Before?"

"Before she was taken."

"Did she tell you anything else?"

"That it was cold and dark. And damp… she said her skin didn't feel like it was sloughing off anymore."

"But no hints of what she told us today?"

"No. Nothing."

For a moment the car was quiet again as they inched their way into the city. But again, the silence made Emily uncomfortable with her thoughts.

"How do you want to approach interviewing Natalie tomorrow?" Emily asked.

Hotch wondered if she realized they were both switching back and forth between Natalie and Abigail. Abigail was the victim, the sweet girl who'd been stolen and brutalized. Natalie was the survivor, a young woman cobbled together from the ashes of a horrific past. She was someone who lived every day under the burden of long-kept secrets of her captivity. In a very real sense, Abigail Lentz had died after her recovery and Natalie had been born. It should have been an irreconcilable dichotomy, but Abigail had needed to be Natalie. Not just for personal protection and privacy, but to continue living beyond what had happened to her.

"Based on what we know about her, I think it's safe to assume that she's going to resist answering questions about what happened. To a certain extent it will be deliberate… but there's more that will be unconscious. She's lived so much of her life denying what happened, guarding secrets of what happened. I don't know that she's going to be able to voluntarily push past that wall."

"How much can we push her before she completely shuts down?" Emily asked. "The last time she was subjected to a rough interrogation, she essentially collapsed," Emily reminded him.

"We'll have to watch the tone of the interview. Before, the instructions were to get information from her by any means necessary, including accusations and threats. She'll be able to hold up to difficult questions, so long as we're careful not to seem like we're accusing her of anything."

"She'll expect that," Emily mused. "After what she told us today, she'll expect us to accuse her again."

"I know."

"Hotch…"

When she didn't finish her sentence, Hotch looked over at her. It was disconcerting. Emily was driving, but sitting in, for him anyway, the passenger seat. "What is it?"

"I just wonder if you realize… everything she must be feeling right now," Emily said quietly. "She isn't just a victim. She's a survivor and at this point we don't know everything that she did to live through what had happened. There's no way she put everything behind her, not really. But she was living well with her secrets. This is going to be more difficult for her than I think you know."

Hotch was quiet for a moment, absorbing her words, gauging how best to respond. The tension in the car built until both agents could feel it creeping up their shoulder blades.

"I don't want to hurt her, Emily. I've never wanted that. But the man who took her, who took and killed all those other girls, who's kidnapping and murdering young women now, he's never going to stop. Until he's caught or he's dead, he will continue to kidnap, torture, and kill women. As much as I want to let Natalie Price live the rest of her life in peace, I have to think about those women and girls who are dead and all the ones we could prevent from suffering the same fate. I can't let my sympathy for Abigail or Natalie interfere with that."

"This isn't your fault, Hotch," Emily told him.

"What?"

"Come on. I know you. I know what you're thinking. You're sitting there blaming yourself. You think if you'd have interviewed Abigail Lentz more, pushed harder, you would have gotten more out of her, that you'd have found The Collector and none of those women would be dead."

"You weren't there, Emily. I didn't push her at all! I let my pity for a wounded child overcome my sense of responsibility and look what happened! Another group of women are dead because I let my feelings get in the way of doing my job!"

Hotch's outburst was met with silence. He closed his eyes, attempting to regain control over his temper. He hadn't realized that the blame was so close to the surface. A dozen years ago, when their orders had come down demanding a harsh interrogation of Abigail Lentz, Hotch knew they were going to lose The Collector. And that, as a result, more people would die. All these years later, his nightmares about this case were proving to be terrifyingly real.

At the next exit, Emily pulled the car off the over-crowded highway. As soon as she found a spot, she parked the car and turned to her former boss. "Hotch, look at me." She waited until he opened his eyes and looked at her. "This is not your fault. What happened to that girl, what happened to all of those girls, is not your fault. The only person to blame is the man you took them."

When he didn't say anything, she continued, her voice was absolute assurance. "You did everything you could. You were the only one she trusted back then. According to her file, she wasn't even talking to her parents. But she talked to you. Do you think that if she didn't remember that trust, didn't remember how you treated her all those years ago, she would have talked to us today? Do you think we'd be talking to her again tomorrow? It's because of your work, the trust you built that we're even getting the opportunity to go after this guy again."

Hotch closed his eyes briefly, holding on to those earnest words. He prayed she was right, prayed he would be able to build on whatever trust still remained between him and the girl who used to be Abigail Lentz.

When he nodded, Emily put the car in gear and pulled back onto the roadway. Tomorrow was going to be a long, terrible day. They needed to get back to her office and plan how best to ease the information they so desperately needed from Natalie Price.

* * *

Hotch crawled into the bed in his hotel room at nearly 1:00 a.m. After a brief video conference with the BAU team, dominated mostly by everyone chatting with Emily, the duo had re-reviewed all of the case files associated with The Collector. They'd identified at least two more potential victims that they'd need to question Natalie about. Most importantly, they'd determined a plan of interrogation that they both hoped would get the information they needed without sacrificing Natalie's hard-earned peace.

He just remembered to set the alarm before falling asleep. Emily would be back to pick him up at 9:00 a.m. Hotch groaned aloud at the thought before giving up to exhaustion.


	10. Chapter 10

**Y'all should lynch me for taking so long.**

**Disclaimer: yeah, I'm going to stop doing this because I think we all get the point that I don't own the show.**

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Lunch was awkward. The trio was back in the parlor; plates of robust sandwiches and gleaming fruit had been wheeled in not long after the agents arrived, along with another pot of tea and one of coffee. There were fries – chips, Hotch reminded himself – served along with the sandwiches. Mrs. Adams had offered a mind-blowing variety of toppings for them. For the life of him, Hotch couldn't figure out how someone could eat the enormous sandwich, the pretty bowl of fruit, along with a generous helping of chips smothered in gravy. He stomach turned a bit at the thought. Hotch took a quick look at his companions. Neither looked particularly interested in the meal.

Both Emily and Natalie sported dark circles under their eyes. Hotch knew he had a matching set. Clearly, no one had slept well in preparation for this lunch meeting; although the circles marring Natalie's features were by far the most severe. The poor girl looked exhausted. If Hotch hadn't known better, he would have thought she'd been beaten during the night. She looked disturbingly like she had the first time he'd seen her in the hospital in Pennsylvania… exhausted, bruised, broken.

Hotch glanced at Emily, who picked at her food as well. It worried him that she wasn't eating. Emily never skipped meals. As an agent for the BAU, Emily had seen more than her fair share of nightmarish cases and been a victim in too many. Hotch knew he had, too. But as the leader of the BAU, Hotch had been responsible for the safety and well-being of every person that served under him. He'd learned the signs for each of his agents – irritation, anger, fatigue, hyperactivity, silence, loss of appetite. Emily's had never been loss of appetite. Irritation and silence had been the signs for Emily. She was silent now though. Hotch wondered how much of her silence was due to the stress of the case and how much could be attributed to the genuinely uncomfortable atmosphere in the parlor.

Hotch cleared his throat. In the quiet of the room, both ladies glanced up from their still-full plates. "Maybe it would be best if we came back tomorrow," he suggested tentatively. He didn't really want to leave; he needed to speak with Natalie about what had happened when she'd still been Abigail. But it was obvious that no one was willing to speak. Hell, even he was discomfited about everything.

"No," Natalie said with a sigh. "Let's just get started," she added without raising her eyes from the sandwich on her plate.

Hotch and Emily exchanged a glance. They'd discussed how to approach the questioning. They hoped to eventually convince Natalie to participate in a cognitive interview, but for now, they would let Emily lead off with what they hoped to be easier questions.

"When you ran into the camp on the day you were found, you were wet. Your clothes, your hair, your skin. Did you run though water during your escape?" she asked.

Natalie's brow furrowed in confusion. She hadn't expected to be asked about the escape, only her captivity. Her thoughts veered sharply away from the bad memories she had hoarded for so long. "I… uh…" she paused as she struggled to remember. "I don't think… wait." Natalie closed her eyes, tried to put herself back into the memory of running for her life. "There was a creek… not big or deep. It was only up to my calves. It splashed when I was running."

"That wouldn't have been enough to get you so drenched," Emily commented.

"No… I… I fell. In the creek. I slipped on the rocks; they were slimy… like algae and mud or something. I slipped… I didn't completely fall in… just down to my knees. I remember the pain when I landed on all fours. My left knee hit a sharp rock in the water."

"But you weren't hurt badly," Emily reminded her. "You got up and kept running."

"Yes. I wasn't down very long… a couple of seconds. I remember sliding across the rocks before getting up and running again."

"That explains the mud," Hotch commented.

"But I was dirty and wet before I fell in the creek," Natalie said.

"Why?" Emily asked.

"It was damp… in the dark, it was damp. It felt like… like the way your clothes feel when they don't get completely dry in the dryer."

"What about the dirt?" Hotch asked.

"Hmmm?"

"The mud, Natalie," Hotch said gently, bringing her focus back to the questioning. "If you were already muddy when you fell in the creek, where did the dirt come from?"

Natalie frowned. "The ground… I think some came from the room I ran from. The floor was bare, like tile or stone. But it wasn't clean, not swept. I tripped on something in the dark, slid across the floor. It was hard, like stones, but I remember feeling grit in my palms, scraping across my hip."

Hotch began to ask another question, about the room, but Emily shot him a glance and shook her head. Before he could question her, Natalie continued.

"There was dirt just outside the room, too. But it was dirt like the ground, not like a dirty floor. When I got away, I ran. I couldn't see anything and was dragging my arms along the walls trying to find a door. I fell… through an opening, a doorway. That's where the dirt was. There was a slight step down, that's when I fell. The floor was dirt… hard, almost like clay," Natalie told them. She'd slipped into a slow, thoughtful rhythm as she spoke, her brow furrowed in concentration. "That's when I heard him. He was running, screaming that he was going to find me, that I was his," Natalie's voice began to quaver and she gasped a bit at the end of the sentence. "He was so close," she panted, "so close. I ran. I ran and - "

"Natalie," Emily said sharply.

The younger woman jerked away from her thoughts and the room silenced.

"You're not there anymore. He can't hurt you, okay?" the agent reminded her. She waited for Natalie to nod her understanding before continuing. "Don't focus on what was behind you; think about what was in front of you."

Natalie took another gasping breath, calming her racing heart. "Okay."

Emily continued, "You got up from the dirt floor and ran. Which way?"

"I don't know. I couldn't see anything. But I could hear him and I knew I had to get away."

"How did you pick a direction?" Emily asked.

"I ran away from the noise, away from the screaming. It was hard to tell because it was echoing. But I knew that I needed to be as far from the voice as possible."

"So, you ran in the opposite direction of the shouts. Did you see anything when you ran?"

"No. I couldn't see anything. There was no light. Unless he wanted it, there was never any light."

"Did you smell anything?"

"Uh…" Natalie hesitated.

"Close your eyes, Natalie," Hotch instructed. When she did, he continued, "Put yourself back in the darkness. You're running in the dark. What do you smell?"

"It's not a smell… it… it's like it stops smelling a little. In the dark, even though it was always cool, the air was… close. Still. It smelled like wet and dirty people."

Hotch continued questioning her in a soothing, even tone, "But not when you were running?"

"It did, but… it was less. Sometimes, when I was running there would be a space where it smelled normal… like a pocket of normal, fresh air."

"But you kept running through the pockets?" Emily asked.

"Yes, I couldn't make myself stop."

"Then what?" Hotch asked.

"The stairs…" Natalie whispered. "I found the stairs."

"How?" Hotch asked. "It was dark."

"That's how I found them. I ran into them," Natalie explained. "Literally. I ran into the bottom step, tripped and fell onto the steps. That's when I bit my tongue," Natalie suddenly recalled. She had a quick flash of memory – her chin landing sharply on one of the step risers and the jolt of her teeth crashing together, then the sharp taste of blood and the bright flash of pain in her tongue.

"I didn't think, I just went up. The stairs were rough, rough wood. Maybe not finished, definitely not sanded. That's where I got the splinter," Natalie told Hotch with a small sound.

Hotch smiled in return. He remembered the splinter. Abigail had been picking at it when he first met her. After sitting with her for several hours without speaking, Hotch was able to convince her to let him remove it. When the irritated sliver had been removed, Hotch cleaned and bandaged her foot.

"How long did you go up the stairs?" he asked.

"Not long… there was a door at the top. It wasn't locked. I remember being confused by that, afraid it was a trick."

"But you went through it," Hotch reminded her.

"I did. For a second, on the other side, I wished I hadn't."

"Why?" Emily asked.

"The light. The sunlight was so bright it burned my eyes."

"It had been that dark before?" Emily asked.

"Yeah. Sometimes there would be a light… maybe some candles or a… like a camping lantern thing. It was never very much. Just bright enough for whatever he wanted to see. When I came through that door, I thought I would go blind."

"Did you stop running?" Emily asked.

"Uh…," Natalie closed her eyes, struggled to put herself back in that moment. It was so hard to remember clearly. "I don't think so. I slowed down though. I tried to cover my eyes; it didn't work very well."

"Okay, so you went up the stairs and opened the door. You ran through the open door; what did you see?" Emily asked.

Natalie kept her eyes closed as she walked herself back through those first terrifying moments in the light. "A table… small and informal… a pale wood color. Um… dishes. Some cups, a couple of plates and forks and knives. Not dirty. They were set out… on a rack or something."

"Were they near a sink?"

"I think so… there's a towel… like a tea towel, folded near them."

"Alright, what about the walls? The floor?"

"God, I don't know… plain. Nearly white. It's so bright! It hurts my eyes!" Natalie told her. There were tears leaking from under her closed lids; even the memory of the brilliance in the room gave her a blinding headache.

"Why is it so bright?" Hotch asked. "Is it just the overhead lights?"

"No. Those are on, too. But it's the sunlight… it's coming through the windows."

"Where are the windows?" Hotch asked.

"There's one over the sink… and a big one behind the table." Her brow furrowed a bit. "I think there's another… There's another room… through an open doorway. I can see part of a window."

"How did you get out of the house?" Emily asked.

"The other room. I ran into the other room. It's bright… the window. It's not really a window. It's a door… like the one we had in the kitchen at home. A window on top… little rectangle panes. That's how I got out. I went out that door."

"Think about before you ran out the door. What else about that room? Was there furniture? Any other windows or doors?" Hotch asked.

Natalie struggled to remember. Everything had happened so fast. Her eyes stung and she was running for the door. "I didn't really look around. When I realized the window was over a door, I just ran for the way out," she told the agents. "I don't remember much furniture. There was a chair… off toward the right as I ran in the room. The door was not quite directly in front of the doorway when I ran in the room; a little off to the left of that opening. The chair… like an easy chair… was off to the right. It looked… old. Like the pattern was from the eighties or something; it was ugly."

"What about any other rooms?" Emily asked.

"I didn't notice any other doors or rooms, but I wasn't really looking for them. I saw my way out and ran for it," Natalie told them.

"Alright. You ran to the door with the window panes, did you see anything near that?"

"There were pegs on the wall, like where you'd hang a coat or scarf."

"Were there any coats there?"

"No. Just three bare pegs."

"How high were they?"

"Um… not high. When I got to the door, they looked to be about my shoulder height."

"Did you see anything else?"

"I don't think so."

"Okay. You opened the door and ran out of the building. What did you see?" Emily asked gently.

"There should have been a step," Natalie said immediately.

"What do you mean?" Emily asked.

"The ground was further down than I thought it would be. There should have been a step at the door."

"How far down was the ground?" Emily asked.

"I'm not sure… When I stepped down, the lip of the door way was at my shin, but not as high as my knee."

"What else did you notice?"

"There was a mat. Brown and thick and… bristly. It was rough and prickled the bottom of my feet."

"Was there a porch or patio?" Hotch asked.

"No. There were some stones… paver stones arranged on the ground for a couple of feet beyond the doorway. The mat was on the pavers. And there were some flagstones that looked like they made a path around the side of the house."

"Did you follow the path?"

"No," Natalie told them. There was no equivocation in her response. "I wanted to get away from the house. I ran away from them… away from the door and the path. The woods were close, only about 20 feet away. So I ran for the trees. I thought maybe I could at least hide there."

"When you stepped out of the door, did you hear anything?"

"I don't… I could hear yelling behind me. 'Where are you, you little bitch!'"

"Could you hear anything else?"

"Like what?"

"Cars, a lawnmower, an air conditioner, dogs barking, anything," Hotch said.

Natalie shook her head. "I don't think so. My ears were buzzing a bit… probably the adrenaline. Plus, I was so focused on that voice… I don't think I would have heard a plane landing over that voice."

Hotch nodded his understanding. "You ran for the trees," he reminded her.

"Yeah. I ran for the woods. It was easier to see in there, dimmer. The light didn't hurt my eyes so much."

"How far did you run?"

"I don't know."

"Did you ever stop?"

"No."

"Did you ever trip or fall over anything?"

"No."

Emily interrupted the questioning, "Natalie, your feet were bare. How did you keep running through a forest without shoes?"

"I remember stepping on things… rocks, sticks. I remember running through some thorns, too. But I didn't stop. I couldn't. I could feel the pain, but it was so quick… a brief, bright flash. Then it was gone. I just ran. I ran and ran and ran until the creek."

"Did you see anything, any particular trees, stumps, rocks?"

"No, but I didn't really look. If it wasn't in front of me, I didn't see it."

"Did you hear anything in the woods?"

"I thought I could hear him yelling behind me. It felt like he was right there… I could hear running, but I think that was just me."

"Do you know how long you ran until you fell in the creek?" Emily asked.

"No, but it felt like I'd been running forever. I had a stitch in my side and I was gasping. When I fell in the creek, some of the water splashed up in my face. I was breathing so hard that I actually swallowed some it and started choking. I was afraid he would catch me then. I was so tired and I couldn't breathe. My chest and throat hurt from swallowing the water and I was coughing. God, I was making so much noise! I thought he would find me then. I thought he would catch up to me and drag me back to that place."

"But you got up and kept running," Emily told her.

"Yeah, but I wasn't running as fast then. I was losing the adrenaline rush. My feet and legs were starting to hurt and the pain in my side was awful. I was more stumbling than running."

"But you kept running. You ran into the campers."

"Yeah, I kept going. When I ran into the campsite, I just saw a guy. I thought it was him. I thought he'd circled around, gotten in front of me. He started shouting and then the other one showed up, the lady. She was coming out of a tent. I ran toward her. She was saying something… 'Holy fucking Christ.' I tried to ask for help, but I was so tired. I just stopped. Everything just stopped."

"That's when you passed out."

"I think so. I came around when the guy was leading the cops into the campsite."

"Okay," Hotch told her. "I want to go back to the house for a minute. You said that when you went through the door at the top of the stairs, the light burned your eyes. That it was coming through the windows over the sink and behind the table."

"Right."

"Do you remember if it was direct sunlight?"

"What do you mean?"

"Could you tell if it was just a bright day? Or could you actually see the sun through the windows?"

Natalie closed her eyes again, tried to remember. "I think I can see it through the window behind the table. The windows are on the same wall, but I'm closer to the table and I can see out of that window better. Plus, it's a lot bigger."

"Okay, that's good," Hotch told her. "Now, when you ran out of the window-topped door, where was the sun?"

"Um… toward my left, over my shoulder."

"When you ran into the woods, where was the sun?"

"In the same place, over my left shoulder."

"How was it positioned in the sky?" Hotch asked.

"Uh… not low. It was up, not directly overhead, but close."

"Okay, that's good. When you fell in the creek, could you see the sun?"

"Kind of. There were a lot of trees though. It wasn't as bright."

"Where is it in the sky?"

"I think… I think it's more off to my right then. It's really high in the sky, but more toward my right than it was before."

"Now look at the water. Is it moving?"

Natalie thought back to her tumble in the creek. "Yeah, but I don't know how much of that is from me falling."

"Can you tell which direction it's flowing?"

"It looks like towards the left?" Natalie said unsurely. She couldn't really tell. "There's so much muck; I can't really tell which way the water goes, but I think kind of toward the left. There's a bend in the creek not far up from there, so I can't really see where it goes or if it turns."

"That's fine," Hotch told her. "Now, when you ran into the campers, where was the sun?"

"I don't know," Natalie told him.

"Why not? Was it dark? Were there too many trees?"

"No. No, it wasn't anything like that. I could still see; there was plenty of light. But when I saw the guy, I started to freak out a bit. I'm pretty sure I started hyperventilating and that's why I passed out."

"But you could see okay?" Hotch pressed.

"Yeah. It wasn't as bright as before, but there was still enough light."

"And when the cops came?"

"It was darker then. I could see them, but not a lot of detail."

Hotch sat back, looked over at Emily who smiled.

"That's good, Natalie," she told the younger woman. "You've been able to give us a lot of detail that will help us narrow down where you might have been held."

Hotch looked over at the windows and realized how late it was. The sun was starting its decent. His stomach grumbled a bit, too.

Natalie heard it and smiled. "How about I have Mrs. Adams bring some tea and coffee? We didn't eat much lunch and I'm actually hungry as well."

Emily looked at Hotch. They both knew the dangers of pushing questioning too far. Victims and interrogators became sloppy and frustrated. Important details could be missed.

"Maybe we should stop for the day. We've been at this for several hours already. It might be best if we took a break, got some rest," Hotch told her.

Natalie briefly looked away from the agents. She licked her lips, a nervous habit Emily had noticed. "I'd rather keep going. I know you have more questions. You haven't even gotten to what he did to us."

"Are you sure, Natalie?" Emily asked. "We can come back tomorrow after you've had a chance to rest."

Natalie loosed a soft, rueful laugh. "I haven't really been sleeping well the last few weeks. I'd really just like to get this over with, if you're up to keep going."

Hotch nodded his consent. "Alright, Natalie. We'll have tea and keep going."

Natalie left the room and Hotch and Emily were able to speak freely since they'd walked into the house.

"She remembered more detail than I expected," Hotch told his former colleague. "How do you think she's holding up?"

"She's doing well. Considering her discomfort when we arrived, she's been cooperative with the questioning so far. But we haven't really gotten into the worst part of what happened."

"I know. Do you think she's ready for what's coming?" Hotch wondered.

"Are we?" Emily countered.

"I don't know," Hotch admitted.

Neither agent spoke again as they waited for Natalie to return. When the young woman did return, she pushed the same tea cart laden with little snacks and steaming pot of tea. The group settled away from the lunch table, in the little sitting area where they'd been the day before.

After Natalie had poured cups for each, she looked over at Hotch.

"What do you want to know first?" she asked him.

"How many girls were there?" Hotch asked.

"When I was first taken?"

"Yes. How many girls were there then?"

"Eleven. There were eleven of us."

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**Thoughts? Comments? General dickery because I took so long to update?**


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